writing

Reading Recovery

Published in the year of his death from cancer, Henning Mankell’s After the Fire is a slow examination of a seventy-year-old’s confrontation with solitude and loss.  The protagonist, a retired doctor,  lives in a archipelago being visited by an arsonist, and we begin at the site of the first fire. Finding the arsonist is relegated to the background, as what it means to live in a community where trust is replaced by wariness is explored, even as death and old age is the larger specter in the forefront.  Yet this is an optimistic novel, where friendship and family, however distant, is embraced, sometimes gingerly, sometimes with affection.

This was the one of the last books I read before I broke my wrist, but not the last book I’ve read since.  There was a fatalistic stoicism in the narrative that strikes me deeper as  I now try to fill my days with no-impact activity.  Thus constrained to cat care, lackluster weeding, a great deal of sighing, a fascination of one-handed bottle opening techniques, elevating my arm on pillows, watching repeats of mysteries, instagram, I am reading with an awareness that my situation could have been worse.  The Great Believers by the quite brilliant Rebecca Makkai, a Claire Messud novel, Elif Safak‘s Forty Rules of Love,and a wonderful novel by Caitlin Macy called Mrs. Now, biding my time, easing insomnia, I am romping through Kevin Kwan‘s Crazy Rich Asians, which will become a film*. it has an all-Asian cast, for it is story about Asians.  Apparently, one filmperson wanted the heroine to be re-cast white, but no.  She will be a wary non-rich, non-crazy Asian woman portrayed by an Asian.

Sometimes  the fates shift the balance.

*the book is different than what the film preview shows, from dialogue to fashion, alas.

Roaring ocean

image

http://7-themes.com/6959793-ocean-waves-at-night.html

The roar was so loud I heard in the parking lot last night, when I got home from somewhere.  What laugh was this in the sky?  It was the ocean, whose wild crashing waves called fiercely.  Write poems, breathe, run with your brand new sneakers.  I heard the coyotes circle and bark other days– I think it is a family of young pups whose mother only has three legs– and the horses snoring like elephants.  Tomorrow in class we will discuss poems by Li-young Lee.  I want to tell the students this is their rare life chance to read beauty, to breathe the breath of a poet, to think.

Here are his lines:

…where there is rain/there is time and memory, and sometimes sweetness.

While the long grain is softening/ in the water, gurgling/ over a low stove flame…

Of wisdom, splendid columns of light/ waking sweet foreheads/ I know nothing/ but what I’ve glimpsed in my most hopeful of daydreams.

How could they not want to read those?

An incessant songbird plies its tune, mellowed by the chirps from other branches.  Sometimes where I live, it is so quiet I can only hear the refrigerator hum.

One cat is hiding near the ceiling, and the other blinks, stretching her paw out like a queen.  They are waiting for dinner, which will come today an hour early. The lost hour slips by, like a girl on her way to dance class, shoulders hunched, eyes averted.  Already March, Spring readies to let down her hair and twirl.

 

Breathing

 

I spent my birthday as an author-in-residence at the Ames Free Library in North Easton, MA.  Through a chance encounter, an immediate spark of connection, and some planning, I resided royally in a  19th c. mansion designed by Andrew Jackson Downing who collaborated with Frederick Law Olmstead of Central Park fame.  I arrived at night, kindly escorted, met, and settled into what would be my home for the next day and quarter.  I settled in with the second Neapolitan novel by Elena Ferrante, in which life becomes even harsher for our knowledge-seeking heroines.  On waking, I discovered I was in another world.  I was inside a mansion. Tackling a kuerig capsule of coffee, a drip coffeemaker, and a precious container of milk, I made coffee, ate a buttered English muffin, and began to read.  The room I was in contained a small library of books on writing, comfortable chairs, and a view that revealed an Italian-like garden, complete with curving low walls, a pergola, and in the distance, a fountain.

After a full day with a visit with my brother, a reading/talk in the library, and a celebratory dinner ( I turned fifty-five), I retired to “my home.”  Then the bliss:  I woke the next day, settled at the desk, and wrote.  I discovered the Italian garden was the garden in the novel in progress.  Only when I came home did I find out that Downing drew plans for  another landscaped manor, on property owned by Matthew Vassar, whose college I attended.

Sringside Planss/ upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e7/Springside_plans.jpg

Sringside Planss/
upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e7/Springside_plans.jpg

I wish my professor, the late Bill Gifford, could share this discovery with me.  He would appreciate the connection, and would have something witty to add.  I trek back to Vassar to attend his menorial in December.

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